Friday, September 28, 2007

The Case of the Red Bottomed Blonde

The Case of the Red Bottomed Blonde
by Katharine Tyler Brooks

She was a tall blonde who stalked the streets like a tigress in heat, hunting for the only fresh meat that would stay her hunger. I watched her from across the bar as she entered, her black stiletto heels clicking against the red linoleum floor. She looked too classy for the joint, but I could tell she’d been in places like this before, plenty of them. She was living under better circumstances now, but she remembered where she came from. She knew where to go to get what she wanted and how to get it when she got there.

The fat guy was tending bar tonight. He was polishing the glasses to match the shine on his head when she walked up and leaned across the bar. She said something in his ear and he turned and looked at me, pointing with the bar rag in his hand. She came my way.

She was wearing a trench coat and a hat with a wide brim. Some little blonde curls stuck out from under the edge. She smiled at me--the way the shark smiles at the smaller fish just before he takes a big bite out of them. I recognized her. She recognized me. The only question was if either of us was going to say so.

"Mr. Bogie?"

She knew damned well I was. She just stood there next to the chair like she was expecting me to be a gentleman. I pushed it out with my foot and gestured for her to sit down. She smirked at me and peeled off her coat just the way she used to peel off her dress down at Mickey’s, only this time there was no spotlight and the jukebox was playing a slow blues number instead of her old bump and grind.

She threw the hat on the table and took a seat. Blonde waves tumbled down over her shoulders like a waterfall. She was seeing a better class of hairdresser these days. The shades of blonde all blended together now instead of hanging in dried out clumps. Better manicurist, too. Instead of long, red claws, she now had shorter, more elegant nails. They were still painted red. She opened her black leather clutch bag and drew out a cigarette, holding it poised at her mouth, wanting me to light it. Okay, I’d play her game. I’d go along with it. I pulled out my old lighter, flicked it twice, and lit her cig.

"Got another one of those?"

She offered me the pack. I took one. I lit it myself.

I leaned across the table and looked her straight in the baby blues.

"Okay, sister, let’s have it. You know I don’t go for beating around the bush."

She smiled, sly as always.

"You used to. Quite a few other places as well."

Ha, ha, very funny, I thought. But I also thought about the old days, her, tied to my big ironwork headboard, naked as plucked bird, spread and waiting, ankles tied to the bed frame, eyes on me, begging—begging me for more. The sound of her voice brought me back to reality.

"I need you, Dick.”

I felt my soul lurch. Somewhere a part of me had waited to hear those words and in spite of my determination to stay cool, a part of me dared to hope she’d come to her senses and realized where she belonged, but her next words dashed that hope.

“I need your help."

She didn’t want the man. I laughed at myself for thinking even a moment that she had. She wanted the detective, someone she could use and throw away the way she had before. Still, the prospect had its possibilities. Her eyes pleaded, just the way they had all that time ago when she was tied to the bed.

I leaned back in my seat and took a long drag from my butt, assessing the situation. Sure, she was gorgeous, maybe even more now that she’d seasoned a little. She was wearing a black evening gown, strapless, and her tits rose over the top like twin moons half above the horizon. Just looking at them made me want to weep over the memories, but I’m not the crying kind.
Her legs were as good as ever, too, at least from what I could see. The slit up the skirt of her dress only went up to mid thigh, but it was a pretty decent guess that what I couldn’t see was as good as what I could.

"Why me? Why now, after all these years? With the bucks you’ve got these days, you could buy yourself a fleet of Pinkertons. You don’t need me."

She leaned forward, giving me a view of cleavage damned near to her navel.

"I need YOU, Dick. You’re the only one I can trust."

"Like you trusted me back then when you walked out on me?"

"I was scared, Dick, scared of what I was becoming. I couldn’t get enough of you, enough of it.
The more you beat me, the more I wanted. You were my addiction, my drug. I had to kick it."

"It’s called being a masochist. It’s what you are, baby. It’s what you’ll always be. You need it rough and you need a guy who’s man enough to give it to you that way.”

"I was losing myself."

"Were you? Or did you find yourself and was the self you found just too hard to admit to?"

"I don’t know. I didn’t know then and maybe I never will. I just knew I had to leave you."

"You’re only half a woman without me, doll. You know that. You’ll never be the woman you really are without a man strong enough to put his hand to your ass when you need it."

That broke her. She’d had enough. She stood up and clutched the black leather bag to her body. I could see her holding back tears. Or maybe just pretending to. She hung her head and turned away from me.

"It was a mistake to come here."

"Glad you don’t need me to tell you."

"I’m sorry I bothered you. Forget you ever saw me."

"You can bet on it."

Then she walked out of my life. Again.

I’d told her I’d forget her, but the lady was hard to forget. I still hadn’t forgotten her from the first time. I’d had other girls before her. I’d had plenty of girls since. But nobody was ever like her. Nobody ever would be. She’d been the sweetest little pain slut any man could ever ask for. Tall and voluptuous, with tits the size of grapefruits, an ass like a pair of white satin pillows, hair like a river of smelted gold, and skin softer than kid.

And she could take it. She took everything I could dish out and wanted more. I’d leave her tied up for hours, beat her with everything from paddles to whips. Clamp her nipples and hang weights on the chain. Shove a dildo covered in pepper sauce up her ass. It only made her come. And she came like a freight train, came like the cavalry riding over the hill. Came until she was so exhausted she passed out still in her bonds.

But that was yesterday. I tried not to think about the past, but after her invasion of my favorite drinking spot, I couldn’t get her off my mind. What had she wanted so badly that she sought me out, risked exposing her past by contacting her old lover? She had to be desperate to have done it and I felt like a heel for chasing her off. Sure, she ran out on me before, and sure, it made me
mad. But I had loved her once and once was all there was for me.

This is just a teaser of one of the many great stories to be found in Katharine Tyler Brooks' short story collection, Achieving Ecstacy.
Buy now to get the entire book in e-book format!

Support independent publishing: buy this e-book on Lulu.
Or visit Inky Blue Allusions for more great erotica!


Anonymous said...

"Acheiving Ecstacy?"

Umm. Look again, maybe? Unsubtle hint: "i" before "e," except after "c."

(There are exceptions, but achieve is not one of them.)

Perfection is a bitch of a standard, but still worth striving for, yes? ;-)

Autumn Seave said...

You are correct, of course. And you'll notice it is about to change. We may all strive for perfection but no one is ever able to reach it.